


letters to clyde logan

by addictedtoacertainlifestyle



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Rating May Change, Romance, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addictedtoacertainlifestyle/pseuds/addictedtoacertainlifestyle
Summary: Clyde Logan is not a man who gets a lot of mail.But on February 8th, just a week before Valentine’s Day, he receives a letter that changes things.





	1. february 8th

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is completely and wholly dedicated to all my dear friends AND acquaintances over at Discord, to the people of Clyde Logan’s Love Cabin. these past few months have been such a precious time of my life because of them, and truly, i couldn’t be more grateful to have gotten to know them. lads and lassies: i love you all heaps, and i’ll see you tomorrow for another chapter! i really hope you enjoy this first one.
> 
> do leave kudos and a comment, i’d love to hear your thoughts! this is my first time writing a multi-chapter so while i’m still working stuff out, i can’t wait to show you the rest :)

  Clyde Logan is not a man who gets a lot of mail.

  Sure, he’d love to, since he’s not particularly fond of e-mails and text messages. While they do the job adequately, they don’t have that spark, that excitement of a real letter, hand-written and all. He might sound like an old man, grumbling about the modern technology, but things worked just fine before them.

  When he was not a lot older than 10, he had a pen pal to exchange letters with, from all the way across the States. A young girl of the same age, named Amanda, living in Seattle; the distance was so long at that time that he couldn’t quite comprehend it. Having just learned how many miles there were between Boone County and Seattle, the fact that they could talk through letters felt overwhelming, somehow, but he still liked it. They talked about anything kids of that age did: books, school, friends, and their hobbies. Clyde was always over the moon to receive a letter from her, and sat down on his desk to eagerly write a response – even when the writing stretched well into the night. The mornings after, albeit tiring, were always worth it.

  Around the time he went to high school, she stopped writing, and so did he, having nothing to respond to. Why that happened, he never really understood. It just… faded away, with no ill intent or malice. Perhaps it was just the way things are; some people grow apart as the years go by.

  Sometimes, he reminisces those letters and hopes that he will feel that innocent sort of excitement again.

  You can imagine his surprise when he goes to pick up the mail for the day. Among the normal, mostly useless things he’s used to receiving lies a letter; an actual, handwritten letter with his name and address written at the center of the envelope with a nice, simple penmanship. The small, inked label on the corner next to the postage stamp reads Boone County’s post, though. The corners of the envelope are tinted with slight frost, a result of being out in the winter weather for a while.

  Someone sent him a letter, but they live in the same area as him. Why would someone do that? Surely, if they know his address, they could’ve just come by and talk. Why send a letter?

  He puts those questions aside and walks back inside, turning the envelope in search of a return address. There is none, but Clyde isn’t too put off by that. Maybe the sender doesn’t want to make themselves known just yet.

  Inside, he digs out a butter knife from his cutlery cabinet and tears open the envelope with a slightly shaking hand. The rest of the mail lies on the kitchen table, forgotten for the excitement that bubbles inside him, so very foreign to him. His heart is beating a bit too faster than normal, and his shoulders feel tense.

  Clyde folds the letter open with careful hands after pulling it from the envelope and begins to read.

  _Good morning Clyde! Happy February 8th!_

_Or, I hope it’s morning when you get this. You know how Boone County’s post is, never reliable. So, if it isn’t morning anymore, good noon/afternoon/evening/night!_

_Has your new year set off like you’ve wanted it to? Mine has, somewhat at least. If nothing else, it’s far better than last year. Oh well, you can’t do much but get better when you start from the bottom, can’t ya?_

_You must be wondering why you are even reading this, and why this has been sent to you._

_You see, most of the last year went by with me having a crush on you. Now, I can sense you belittling yourself already, shaking your head in disbelief. But don’t do that, alright? Just accept the fact that someone likes you, and likes you a lot. Very, very much. And desperately hopes that you might feel the same._

_For the upcoming week, you’ll receive six more letters from me – and no, I won’t reveal my identity until Valentine’s Day. It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it? Or at least that’s how I’ve imagined it. I hope you think so too._

_See you tomorrow, and have a lovely day!_

He reads it once, twice, concentrates on every word intently. By the third time he’s skipping over some of the words, stuck on _me having a crush on you_. He reads those five words until they lose their meaning. Continue until they make sense again.

  _Just accept the fact that someone likes you, and likes you a lot. Very, very much._

  Now his heart is going rounds faster than the cars in the Sprint Cup Series, and he has to sit down by the table, something itchy running in his veins, perking him up in a new way. It’s not that same soul-crushing, marrow-deep fear he learned to know in Iraq, a primal instinct that forced him to move and survive; or the strange mess of excitement and apprehension he felt during the heist. No, this is something else. Something unknown, and still longed for.

  Who is this person?

  Right now, he doesn’t mind that much who the writer is, not really. It could be anyone for all he knows; while he doesn’t do small talk or meaningless conversations to that many people, he’s somewhat known around these parts. Being a Logan brother and all. It makes you known, even if you wouldn’t really want to. But to know – or _not_ know – him well enough as to have a crush on him?

  Clyde takes a deep breath in a hasty attempt to slow down his beating heart and restless thoughts. He feels like he’s bound down, shackled to the ground for he feels so heavy but still, his chest feels light and content; a contradiction he can’t begin to solve. He sits there for a long time, just staring at the handwriting. Strong, solid letters, the small curves found in e and the bottom of w and y; plenty of thought and precise movements put in each and every word. All written in a dark-blue, slightly staining ink.

  At some point, his empty stomach protests the silent sitting, and he has to get up and get on with his day. But not before folding the letter and tucking it in his shirt’s breast pocket for safekeeping, a little talisman of luck to keep him company.

  The light, elated feeling doesn’t leave him, not even when he heads out to Duck Tape for the evening. The letter warms his chest, snug right next to his heart.


	2. february 9th

  The next night goes by in small snippets of sleep.

  He feels like he’s back at being 10 again, eagerly waiting for Amanda to respond to his letter, checking the mailbox at least three times a day in case anything had arrived. The excitement is something so fresh, so unusual to him that he can’t even be too bothered by the fact that he isn’t able to sleep that well. He’s missed this, and wants to savour every moment of it.

  Most of the hours Clyde spends tossing and turning, and unfortunately the excitement begins to shift into something more familiar. He works out each and every outcome the next letter might present to him, turning every metaphorical rock and inspecting every possible thought. What if it doesn’t show up in time? What if the first one was just a big mistake, and the writer feels now remorse? Maybe the next letter is all about dismissing everything the first one said, asking Clyde to forget and move on, pass everything as a funny little misunderstanding.

  He doesn’t know if he could do that.

  At some point between five and six in the morning, he finally falls into dreamless sleep, the need to rest and silence the world around him outdoing his worried thoughts. It doesn’t last long, however, and when he wakes up around nine, it feels like he hasn’t slept at all. Exhaustion pulls in his chest, begging him to fall back asleep, but he can’t – as soon as conscious thought returns, he remembers the letter. And the next one that’s supposed to arrive today.

  Just for the sake of his own pride, he dresses slowly and methodically, not letting his body betray his thoughts. He goes through his morning routine like he would any other day of the year, taking his time, even if the funny feeling in his stomach keeps getting more insistent. Every once a while there’s a swell of something light in his chest, begging him to just dash to the mailbox and leave behind the decency he so very tightly holds onto.

  But he keeps his wits about him, challenges his self-restraint to its limits as he leisurely pulls on his winter coat and slides on the shoes he uses when going out to pick up the mail. It is not a good idea to abandon your principles when facing something new, no matter how great the prospect might feel like.

  Today, the letter is the only mail he receives, the mailbox being otherwise empty – not that he’d care about anything else anyways. But it makes him feel cared for and looked after, since even if no-one else remembered him today, at least this mysterious writer did.

  The thought warms him up as he walks back inside to finish his routine. Just like yesterday, he puts the coffee on and then opens the envelope with the same knife – much more careful than before, as he now knows what these envelopes hold inside.

  For a frightening moment he stares at the folded letter and almost stuffs it back in, in the fear of rejection. But at last, his curiosity wins over.

_Greetings, Clyde. Happy February 9th._

_Too formal, don’t you think? I wanted to change it up a bit, but I think I need to return to the old greeting. It sounded nicer; more personal._

_I hope my first letter received you in good circumstances and this one comes in time as well._

_It’s no secret that I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and the things I’d say to you, but now that I finally have the chance to do so, I’m having a hard time writing anything down. Everything feels either too little, or already spoken of. I guess you could say I’m at a loss for words when it comes to you. I hope you don’t mind too much._

_There are so many things I long to tell you about myself, but I fear that by revealing too much you might realize who I am before the time is up. So, we’ll just have to make do with we’ve got, alright? But once Valentine’s is over, I promise to tell you anything you might want to ask me._

_I promise, the next letter will probably have me waxing poetry about you, as I’m very fond of poetry, always up for a good book of poems. Any kind of book, really. I’ve heard that you like to read too. That makes me very happy; it’s good to know that others find comfort from written words as well._

_Maybe one day we can read together, if that’s not too much to ask. I’d love to share my favourite books with you._

_Until the next letter._

  Clyde releases a big, relieved sigh and leans against the counter, closing his eyes just for a moment. Then he looks at the letter again, lets the words sink in, surround him and his worried mind until he’s certain he’s properly realized what they exactly mean.

_It’s no secret that I’ve been thinking about you a lot._

  Oh, if he only knew who this person is. Then he could know if he’s been thinking about them as well. There’s this one girl he’s seen at Duck Tape more than once now, a sweet little thing, someone he’s taken a slight shine to, but…

  No, it couldn’t possibly be.

  Clyde shakes the thought from his head and focuses back on the letter, committing each word to his memory just like he did with the previous letter.

  Truth be told, a small part of him does like the mystery of not knowing. Not everything needs to be known right away; there’s a certain kind of charm about the truth being hidden behind a curtain. He can wait until the grand reveal, he’s nothing if not patient. Years of slow but content life have made him such – or so he hopes.

  But people are prone to change, and Clyde begins to have a feeling this might signal the start of his own change. A new stage in his life.

  It is going to leave a mark, he’s sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 down, 5 to go! i hope y'all are liking this so far! i'm definitely having a good time writing this o(^▽^)o


	3. february 10th

  The days have slowed down, much to Clyde’s displeasure. Before, he didn’t mind the slow crawl of the hours; he’d taken a liking to the tardy passage of life after he was discharged. The strict, heavy routine of the army switched into the gentle lull of the backwaters, and while it took time getting used to again, he loves it now and wouldn’t want anything else. The occasional longing for the comradery of his team is still there, a cherished thought he could never forget. Even if he sometimes misses it, he knows he’s doing well now, maybe even better than if things hadn’t gone the way they did. He doesn’t dare to admit out loud, though.

  But as it usually is, when something out of ordinary happens, it stands out more than anything. It awakens his dormant curiosity, begins to test the oh-so virtuous sides of him that keeps him going in days when everything else feels too much. He tries his best to remain patient, holds onto the refining characteristic that he’s so very proud of.

  After his trials in the army, and even after that, adjusting to his new life, _changed_ life, he had to have something constant in his life. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to affect the world around him; he had to depend on himself first and foremost, and withstand the changes, take them as they come. So, he grew patient and adaptive. 

  He thought his patience would help in this unusual, new situation and the excitement would lessen by now, but no – waking up in the morning brings back the nostalgic butterflies, brewing up a storm of emotions inside him. They are only soothed after he gets his hands to the next letter and opens it in the comfort of his house, away from the freezing February wind that picked up the previous night.

_Mornin’ Clyde! I hope you’re having a nice February 10th._

_I know, I had promised to write some poetry about you. Sadly, my muse hasn’t been co-operating with me for a while (it never is, no matter how much I’d love to write) and anything I tried to write just sounded pretentious and shallow, nothing that could be worthy of you._

_One day, though; I can make a whole book dedicated to you. But only if you want to, that is. I won’t demand anything from you._

_Anyway, I was looking for some inspiration just in the hopes of writing something, and ended up digging out a poetry anthology I hadn’t touched in a while. Then I thought that if I can’t write anything myself, I’d write down an excerpt from my favourite poem_ , Snow and Dirty Rain _by Richard Siken. The ending reminds me of you whenever I read it._

Here I am  
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome  
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,  
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.  
We are all going forward. None of us are going back. 

_Time to go forward, don’t you think? It might not be written by me, but I feel as if I somehow had a hand in making it, in another universe. That’s why it’s my favourite, besides the beautiful, lyrical rhythm of it._

_When I first read it, I hadn’t met you yet – but now, I know it must’ve had a hand in leading me to you. I know it’s sappy, but I can’t help it. I’m an old romantic at heart._

_Until tomorrow, my silent night._

  Clyde can feel the blush from the tips of his ears reach his cheeks, warming him up in a matter of moments. A smile begins to form on his face, and then he’s grinning at the letter like a foolish madman, unable to stop the warmth spreading in his chest until he can feel it everywhere, even in his fingertips. Once again, he stays still, savours the letter and its brand-new words, fresh and clear like a rain shower after days of relentless drought. After the words are in his memory, he lingers on that small excerpt from the poem.

  While he loves his prose, sometimes a bit too much, he’s not _that_ much one for poetry. Most of the time its flowery language is never frank or straightforward, and thus it never really satisfies him; only leaves him with more questions that have no answers.

  However, his little excerpt he thinks he can learn to like. If not for the words themselves, then for their meaning.

  No-one has ever spoken these things to him, never has he been the subject of someone’s thoughts like this. He imagines the writer reading that poem, wonders how the words have looked like to them, somehow speaking of him; telling a whole other tale of great grand love, but still somehow reminding of him.

  Clyde can’t see it, not really. He’s no applejack or silent night, things of such glory and splendour. He’s just one man. Just Clyde. Nothing special, nothing to fuss about.

  But God, he is glad that someone has chosen to see him as something.

_None of us are going back._

  If there’s anything he’s learned that past is something out of his reach, and there’s no going back to the things he has done. There’s only the action of moving forward, aiming for new moments, new opportunities and new beginnings. The past is left behind, but it is not forgotten. He could never forgive himself if he forgot his past; it is something worthy, something he knows is sometimes painful to recall but still crucial. They’re the best teachers he’s ever had, his past and both it’s successes and failures.

_Here I am leaving your clues._

  Clyde clutches the letter in his hand, the most prominent clue of them all. Each of the words in it a small, personal fingerprint of his writer, leading him towards them, slowly and surely. Every letter at a time, he learns something new. But it doesn’t feel enough. He’s constantly eager for more clues, more information about this seemingly mysterious person.

  The patience he once had is slipping through his fingers, leaving him ravenous.

  He doesn’t know if he should be terrified for not minding about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the poem featured in the chapter is actually my favourite poem! it's pretty long but really good, i highly recommend it and other works from Siken!


	4. february 11th

The morning dawns clear and bright, the sun rising sooner than before, the winter finally starting to reach its last leg. Clyde can’t say he’s too sad about it, the winter fading and giving way to spring. While the Appalachian summers can get sultry and oppressive, there’s something beautiful in them that he can’t find in the winters. Looking out the window to the snowy landscape, he wonders if his writer likes the winter. Are they fonder of the cold and dark nights, gentle snowfalls and raging storms? Or do they enjoy the summer as well?

  Clyde thinks that they might enjoy winter – something about the way they write tells him so, glimpses slipping through the words. It’s an older instinct, one that he doesn’t question, only becomes aware of it. The snow and the cold, while harsh, are beautiful as well; they hide something primal in them that can’t be found anywhere else. It feels like something his writer would appreciate.

  Now there’s only contentment in the place of the anxiety as he heads out to pick up the mail. Even the smallest remains of worry fade when he sees a new letter, the same blue ink and the same small stamp. It appears that his writer is here to stay; already, he can’t help himself from smiling, even though he’s yet to see the content of this particular letter. If it’s anything like what the previous ones included, he knows he won’t be disappointed. And even if it wasn’t, well – he really doesn’t mind. He could receive a shopping list and be glad about it.

  Back inside he puts the coffee on and wedges open the envelope, intending to store it among the rest after he’s read it; he wants to take good care of these letters, keep them as long as possible. Something so simple such as a letter is like a priced artefact for him. It feels ancient, from a time long gone – people just don’t do letters anymore. Or snail mail, as he’s heard some call it. It is a luxury, nowadays, to receive letters, unlike a hundred years before.

  Clyde wonders if the people back then felt as excited as him, to get his hands to a letter, the off-white paper crinkling against his hand. Just a few hours ago, his writer held this paper in their own hands – a thought that seems both alien and incredibly real to him.

  The image of his writer scribbling away remains in his mind as he starts to read.

_Good morning Clyde. May this letter find you well and content on February 11th._

_The radio station I frequently listen to played Country Roads last night. I was not surprised. I do like it, though, and was happy to listen to it and even sing along as usual. It speaks to me in a way only his music can. West-Virginia has always been my home, and I believe every road I’ll ever take will lead me back here again. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I’m not sure what it is that keeps me here. Maybe the people, or the beautiful scenery._

_If you wanted to, we could go travelling together sometime. For my whole life I’ve been stuck in the same place, I’m afraid. But I’m slowly gathering the courage – and the funds – to change the scenery a bit._

_I’ve always wanted to see New York, no matter how boring or cheeky that sounds. Maybe see one of those fancy plays or musicals and walk through Central Park. The ocean, too, is something I’ve surprisingly never seen but long to do so. Maybe once it’s summer and far too hot we could go and cool down by the coast?_

_How much of the world did you see when you enlisted? Or was it only endless dunes of sand?_

_I know you don’t want to talk about it much, so I won’t say anything else. I just want you to know that I am very proud of you, and would never think less of you for your actions – even those you chose._

_Three more left. Until the next one, then._

  Travelling, yes. He could do that, definitely. He hasn’t seen the world as much as he would like, and can’t think of anything better than the golden sands of the coast. His writer is right, the tours lead him straight to the desert, to the middle of the war with no room for breathing; there was never really a good time to even briefly think about anything else, when every coherent thought was spent on getting through the day, one at a time. The sand and the warmth became his enemies, the small towns either a threat or a fleeting haven.

  _I just want you to know that I am very proud of you, and never think less of you for your actions – even those you chose._

  There’s something more to those words than what they say, Clyde can read it between the lines, the unspoken reassurance it clearly tries to convey. Could his writer possibly know about the heist?

  It’s not too far-fetched, he thinks. Rumours spread fast, especially in a place as small and tightly-knit as Boone County where almost nothing happens; people speculated about it a week before it was even talked about on the TV. He’d be lying if he said he regrets it: it’s given him more than taken, really, and it’s not like they got caught. No, his brother was smart enough to cover his tracks. And after a while, Clyde has accepted that he was smart enough to leave most of the money behind. Thanks to that – and to the little money they kept – he has a comfortable life, better than he ever really would’ve imagined.

  Nevertheless, it is good to hear that his writer is willing to see past the things he has done, to who he really is. Not that he has much to offer, not even a whole man, a part of him permanently gone – but judging by these letters, he slowly dares to think that he and his simple life is enough for his writer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit shorter this time, but i hope you don't mind! updates will get sporadic from now on, so please be patient with me! i am going to bring this to a conclusion, don't worry.


	5. february 12th

  When the morning comes and Clyde walks to his mailbox once more, eager to get his hands to the next letter, nothing has arrived to greet him for the day.

  His small smile of anticipation falls and changes into confusion as the mailbox is completely empty, no letter in sight.

  It creeps up on him quietly, like falling asleep – panic starts to set in, along with shivers that don’t come just from the freezing weather as the wind howls past him. He doesn’t feel the cold, not really. Only the stutter of his heart, hand shaking with disbelief.

 He closes the mailbox and walks back in, footsteps heavy and dragging as he tries so very hard to stop his wild thoughts that are already drawing the most gruesome conclusions. _The letter’s just late today_ , he thinks to himself, _they said so themselves that the post can be slow. It’s been a miracle the previous letters have come in time. This was bound to happen._

  Clyde keeps repeating those sentences in his head as he goes through his morning routine, trying to seek out as many distractions as possible. When the morning stretches into midday and his head won’t quieten, his fears and anxieties it becoming too much, he pulls out the previous letters and reads them through one by one, more than once. He has faith in his reader, he truly does – but even the shortest moment of silence has a profound effect on him.

 _They ain’t leaving you just yet,_ he promises to himself, and those feeble words become stronger with each time as he reads the other letters. _If the afternoon post comes and the letter ain’t there, you can start worrying._

  But his mind is loud, relentless, result of the years he’s lived. It’s hard to not listen to the anxious, overbearing thoughts that become even stronger as afternoon goes by. He doesn’t dare to look outside the whole day, lest he’ll never see his letter arriving.

  Around five he takes a deep breath and steps outside again, body silently shaking.

  Then, relief floods him full, taking over him as he sees the letter in the mailbox. Clyde takes it in his hand and yes – the same handwriting, the same stamp. He closes his eyes and smiles, a burden rolling off his shoulders and releasing the hidden tension in his body.

  He starts to tear the envelope open while walking inside as smoothly as he can, finally soothing the ache in his heart and silencing the thoughts in his mind.

  He doesn’t dare to wait any longer and starts to read it immediately he’s closed the front door.

_Good morning, and happy February 12 th. I hope your night was peaceful and you had time to rest. _

_I saw you at Duck Tape last night. Well, of course I did, because that’s your place, after all. Where else would you be? That sounded stupid, didn’t it? God, I’m sorry. Coherency is not always my strongest subject._

_I pray that you don’t think me creepy for saying these things, but you looked content there, behind the bar. I wasn’t there for long, just picking up a few friends, but for that moment I looked at you, you seemed glad to be there. I know you’re not exactly the most eloquent person when it comes to expressing emotions outwardly, but I’d like to think I’m able to read you alright by now._

_You’re so quiet and stoic, but it’s not a bad thing – you aren’t frivolous and prodigal with your emotions, and I think it’s an admirable trait. I always feel honoured if I happen to catch you smiling._

_Anyways, if you were actually miserable then, I apologize again._

_But to me, you looked like you belonged there. You seemed quite pleased with yourself. Any particular reason for it? Perhaps someone special…?_

_Sorry, I’m just messing with you. I’m getting a little bit anxious, as you can probably see. Valentine’s Day can’t come soon enough._

_I only hope you won’t be disappointed._

_Until tomorrow, Clyde._

  Even before he reaches the end of the letter, Clyde’s mind is running through the all options at light speed. Yesterday was a Thursday, relatively busy day as usual, and so he didn’t really have any time to keep the track of every single customer that came through and went, especially those who didn’t stay for a long time.

  Was _she_ there yesterday?

  Clyde tries to remember, meticulously going through the whole night, every moment of every hour he can gather. But no – if she really was there, he doesn’t have any recollection of it. If she just stopped by for a second, during a moment he’d been busy with other patrons, it’s definitely possible he has just missed her.

_I only hope you won’t be disappointed._

  He reads the last line again, contemplating the sudden shift in the tone. Disappointed? He could never be. Just the idea of someone feeling unsure or self-conscious about failing to meet his standards is… plain absurd. _He_ is the one who should feel uncertain. His writer has seen him more than once, maybe even spoken to him, and still has chosen him. It’s a baffling thought, something he can’t quite comprehend just yet.

  The past few days have been a big change in themselves, the letters having become a source of comfort to him. A new feeling has settled into his heart, warm and tender and altogether frightening in its simplicity; how easily his mood can change because of this mysterious writer. It’s different to think that the people around him talk and look after him just out of courtesy or blood ties than to actually _know_ that there is someone who truly cares for him, even has feelings for him.

  Just because he’s him, Clyde Logan, and nothing else.

  And it has made all the difference in the world to him.

  It has slowly started to teach him, to see things just a bit differently. People might call it rose-coloured glasses that cover his eyes and cloud his judgement, but it’s so much more than that. It’s made him become more aware of himself and his surroundings, building another way to see the world. Building his confidence and self-worth, things he thought he possessed, at least enough for this lifetime. But apparently, there’s always room for improvement.

  He knew his panic was irrational and feels like a distant memory now, but he can’t cast it aside either – repressing feelings is never good, in any situation. Things do not change overnight, even if he would love nothing more. He needs to trust himself, trust his writer, and keep going. People can’t improve if they do not take any measures.

  Slowly but surely, he’s taking the right steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for my small absence! the next chapter is nearly done and if things go well it'll be out tomorrow :)


	6. february 13th

  It’s been a while since Clyde dreamt of other things than gunpowder and the dry blood of war. His dreams are never vivid, though; only snippets of memories that have been tainted even darker with his subconscious so that he hardly ever has recollection of anything he dreams about after waking. He doesn’t know which is worse; to remember each dream down to its very last detail, or to wake up with nothing in memory, just the terrifying feeling spreading through his body that leaves him shaken, catching for his breath. Not knowing what he dreams of, what are those haunting images that refuse to leave him alone, is frustrating to him.

  Through the years after his discharge, the dreams have lessened to an extent, but tonight is the first time when he truly remembers what he dreams about: things of softness and serenity.

  He’s walking through a deep forest, trees around him reaching skywards, somewhere way past his reach. Somehow, the sun is able to shine past the thick layer of leaves above him, and so the small beaten pathway before him is bright from the light, almost too much so. He feels disoriented, blinded by it, but doesn’t dare to step away from the path in the fear of losing the direction, and so he carries on despite not knowing where he’s going. Something tells him he doesn’t have to be afraid.

  He might walk for just a minute, or perhaps an eternity – it doesn’t matter. Eventually, Clyde stops when he reaches a small creek flowing in front of him, sparking with light, filled with shades of blue he can’t begin to describe. The way the water moves soothes him, dancing along the riverbed while going downstream, masterfully winding around the moss-covered rocks. It has a mind of its own, a powerful force of nature even when in a slow, restrained state.

  Clyde follows the creek downstream, and soon the bright light starts to fade, as if the sun is setting. He has never felt this calm by just _being_. He has no rush to move along swiftly like the water does, he could stay still and grow roots like the trees around him. But he keeps moving, content to walk beside the creek, eager to find out where it goes. Every little detail around the creek is teeming with life; fragile small flowers blooming in the dark, schools of fish sprinting past in the water, unaware of the world and its cruelties.

  Someday, somewhere far away, the creek will join a river that bleeds into the ocean, vast and impossible to reach. For now, everything is here, in this moment, with him.

  When he wakes up, the creek and the forest are gone from before him. For a moment he just blinks in the low light of his bedroom, chest gently rising and falling in the rhythm of his breathing. The dream lingers in the forefront of his mind, details slowly scattering.

  It has been so long since a dream has left him this content. No fear resides in him, only quiet serenity.

  Serenity that still remains, follows him to the mailbox and back; serenity that blooms even further as he holds a new letter in his hand.

  _Morning, applejack. Happy February 13th._

_After all the years I’ve spent in here, I still can’t get enough of winter. I love the chilly air, the frost and the snow, the starlit night sky above me in the evenings. The change of seasons is so soothing to me; to know that time moves on even when I don’t feel like it does, is what keeps me going._

_When I was little, I loved space more than anything. The simple idea of stars, big things made out of matter I couldn’t quite understand was so fascinating. I read every book in the school’s library, and even asked a telescope for Christmas. I wanted to go to space until I found out how much math it requires. I’m not the brightest when it comes to numbers, obviously. So, that was the end of that. It’s fine now, though; I have other interests to occupy my time. But sometimes I still look up to the stars and wish I could be up there among them._

_I can’t help but wonder what kind of a child you were. I’m thinking a quiet and gentle book-worm, maybe a bit too shy for his own good but with a golden heart. I might be wrong, though. Who knows, maybe you were a little rascal, someone that got into trouble all the time with his experiments._

_Maybe we can share parts of our childhood, during the nights when neither of us can sleep and we’re bursting with memories. I have so much I long to share with you if you’re willing to listen to me; the good and the bad._

_Tomorrow is the day. I can’t wait._

  Clyde remembers his musings from two days back; his writer is a lover of winter after all, just like he suspected. It brings a small smile to his face, for somehow, he could see it through the letters; grasping those small, invisible threads, tiny glimpses of the personality that peek from the writing. Maybe, he’s not completely a lost case.

  Maybe there’s the beginning of the connection he’s been desperately hoping to find.

  He thinks about the starry night skies his writer has looked, the endless universe they have longed to see, then the dream he had. It’s so very small in comparison, but still just as impactful, he believes. The details have faded by now, but the unexpectedly calm feeling still remains within him, a stark contrast to the usual feeling he has after a dream – or a nightmare, more like.

  Clyde has always been more practical than anything, and even if he has his own superstitions about the Logan Curse and the like: he believes in grounding, real things. But now, after the dream, he almost dares to think that his writer is beginning to change things, to bring light into the moments when he feels shadowed, in a way no-one can truly understand, somewhere beyond rational thought and human comprehension. Reaching towards him, guiding him along.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go, eep! the final chapter is still in early works so it's going to take some time, sorry. i just want to make sure the story comes to a conclusion that is as satisfying as possible. so, bear with me for a little bit more, okay?


	7. february 14th

  For the first few moments after waking up, Clyde only stares the ceiling, deep in contemplation. After a hectic night at Duck Tape he went straight to bed when he arrived home, not sparing even one thought to anything else besides the comforting silence of sleep. Fortunately, he didn’t dream of anything, and now he feels well-rested, body relaxed, mind open and thoughts light.

  When he remembers today’s date, his whole being becomes alive. The silent spark bursts forth, making his heart leap and hand shake. The insistent tug within him pulls him along, and he’s more than happy to follow it.

  This morning he drinks his coffee with the final letter in his hand. The mid-morning sun shines through the windows and casts an ethereal glow onto the words as he reads them.

_Good morning Clyde! Happy Valentine’s Day!_

_This is it, Clyde. Today is finally Valentine’s Day. Well, tomorrow as I’m writing this, but you’re reading it on Valentine’s Day. I hope it has had a nice beginning; you deserve to enjoy your mornings, no matter the day. I would like to say that this day is a bit more special, though, so I hope you’re feeling well and you’re enjoying your day._

_So, as I promised, today I will reveal my identity to you._

_Tonight, I’m going to visit Duck Tape around 10 in the evening, and I believe I’ll be seeing you there, won’t I? God, my hands are shaking just from the thought. I’ve always been strong with the nerves, I’m afraid._

_I’ll be wearing a red, floral shirt, just so you’ll know when I’ll arrive. I only hope you recognize me easily._

_I’m not expecting anything from you, and we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I want you to be honest with me. Whatever that means – even if it’s you dismissing my affection. I’m a strong gal; I can take it. I promise._

_Happy Valentine’s Day again, Clyde._

_Until our meeting._

  Reading the letter, knowing that it’s the last time he will read something his writer wrote to him makes an unexpected feeling of melancholy rising within him, something he’s not so familiar with. He’s loved receiving these letters, admiring both the writing and the person behind the words, waiting for the next day to come so that he’d be just a little closer to finally meeting his writer. But now that he’s finally facing the moment, it’s starting to become tangible – it’s just not a faraway idea anymore, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to feel.

_I’m a strong gal; I can take it._

  It is a girl, a woman, then. Clyde had his suspicions, but it’s good to have them confirmed. Not that he’d particularly minded if it hadn’t been, but it makes her even more real by knowing that it’s a she he’s been receiving these letters from. He smiles, unable to hold himself back.  

  The morning drags along, but Clyde is glad about it. While he is beyond ready to meet his writer and finally talk to her, his old demons don’t let go of their hold that easily. Even when he has concrete evidence, clearly stating her affection, the hours between are long enough for him to start doubting. With the painfully familiar ache, his mind keeps telling him all about the possible worst-case scenarios that could take place in the evening.

  But then the worries grow stale and instead he thinks how she could ever believe that he’d turn her down, or _dismiss her affection_ , as she wrote. During this life-changing week Clyde has definitely caught the same spark that his writer harbours for him. She is truly something brilliant, her personality shining through the letters. Her genuine excitement and curiosity, but also hesitation.

  It’s only natural, really, for both of them to be so very afraid of rejection – especially her. After all, she has had no way of knowing how he has reacted to the letters. Even if she saw him for a moment few days ago, she hasn’t spoken to him and doesn’t know how the letters have affected him.

  Clyde cannot wait to tell her how she’s made him feel.

  When he dresses himself for the evening at Duck Tape, he first tries to convince himself he didn’t pick his most presentable button-up just for her sake, but then realises he doesn’t have to try to masquerade his feelings. He wants to look good for her, and he is more than allowed to do so.

  Opening the bar for the night has never felt this important.

\--

  Finally at Duck Tape, Clyde keeps giving his watch intent glances every five minutes, and each time it feels as if hours have passed. His nervous energy keeps his hand twitching, and more than once he almost drops the drink he’d been making. If anyone notices the change in his behaviour, they say nothing, fortunately – it’s not like they get to see him flustered every day. Everyone knows something special is going on, but no-one dares to ask.

  When the clock strikes ten, he is bombarded by a group of young adults demanding a fancy cocktail after another, so he doesn’t have the time to watch the door open as someone walks in. The group keeps him busy for a few moments – far too long for his liking.

  After he’s finally finished, he sighs in exhaustion and turns around, and that’s when he sees _you_.

  Across the counter, just sitting there, wearing a red, long-sleeved shirt with embroidered flowers of all shape and size. When your eyes meet with his, you break into a smile.

  “Happy Valentine’s day, Clyde.”

  His mysterious writer… is _you_. The woman he’s been yearning after for months now.

  The world has never been so kind to him as it is now.

  “Happy Valentine’s day…” he responds, still not quite understanding what is taking place before him, mind whirring and putting together the remaining puzzle pieces he has finally acquired.

  The situation grows on him, faster than he thought it would. Two separate people blurring into one, you and his writer. First, he can’t comprehend it, that this is real and true: you’re the one who’s been thinking about him for the past year. You’re the person who told him about her desire to travel, her love for the stars, her favourite poem. You’re the one who’s changed his life in the past seven days.

  But then he realises that it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  “So… Am I what you bargained for?” you say and interrupt his musings – leaning against the counter with a cocky smile and a casual glow about you. Somehow, Clyde knows it’s all for show and he can see right through it. Hesitation, insecurity simmers beneath your exterior. He knows you want his approval.

  He is more than happy to give it to you, genuine and whole-hearted.

  “Of course, darlin’. More than that, even.”

  The tension dissipates from your shoulders and you let out a quiet sigh, your smile now relieved. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”

  He smiles, too – how could he not, when you’re here with him? You’ve given your heart to him, showed it through those letters without expecting anything in return; the most selfless act done in the name of love. Clyde has no idea what he has done to deserve it. All he knows that the feelings you have for him are the same as the affection he carries for you. He cannot keep it inside anymore, not when he knows it is reciprocated.

  The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them too much: “I’m glad too. That it was you, I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I– I guess ya could say I’ve been havin’ a crush on you as well. Even before you started to send those letters. I just never thought you’d go for a man… a man like me,” he finally confesses, words slow and emphasized.

  You listen to him intently, and something about your expression changes. The playful façade you had just a minute ago is now gone, and when Clyde looks at you again, there are tears in your eyes. But you’re still smiling. You never stopped.

  “Oh, Clyde… We’ve been stupid, haven’t we?” you say with a chuckle, and reach out with your right hand across the counter to set your palm on top of his prosthesis, fingers brushing the cold metal.

  At first, he wants to protest – those who have had nothing bad to say about his injury have at least stayed silent, paid no mind to him not being a whole man anymore. And he accepted it, the treatment from others, because he wanted nothing else but be seen just the same as any other person, no matter what had happened to him. But you, _you_ regard it as a part of him, something you don’t shy away from. You squeeze the prosthesis gently like you would when holding his actual hand, and while it’s not something he can feel, his heart flutters at the sight of you like this. Taking him, just like he is. Not demanding anything else.

  “For the record,” you say softly, after a moment of gentle silence, “I would never want any other man. Not if I can have you.”

  In the rusty-orange light, around the chatter of the patrons, Clyde looks at you, his dear writer, the honest owner of his heart. Peace resides in him for the first time in years, and he feels _whole_ again. He feels like he could conquer the world with you by his side.

  “You’ve had me for a while now,” Clyde murmurs. “And I’ll be yours as long as you want me to be.”

  When you lean over the counter to press your lips against his, the whole world goes quiet. There’s only you, only him. Nothing else matters.

  He never thought he would get this lucky. But as it turns out, things like these might not be about luck, after all.

  It’s about who chooses to love you, and who you choose to love in return.

  And Clyde couldn’t have chosen better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that’s a wrap! i’m feeling very emotional right now, and so very happy to say that i’ve now finished my first ever multi-chapter fic! i’ve had such a good time writing this and i’m eternally thankful for the feedback you’ve given me. It means everything to me. thank you so much, my dear readers! i remember writing this idea down for the first time way back in August and i can’t believe i truly was able to bring the concept into life.
> 
> i am actually planning to add one more chapter to this, an epilogue of sorts – that’s when the rating will definitely go up ;) but as I’m rather busy with few other fics i want to finish and get out, it’s not my number one priority. that’s why i’m leaving it as finished for now. you best believe i’m going to write it, though. our country boy needs some loving, don’t you think?
> 
> anyways, thank you again, from the bottom of my heart, and i’ll see you around when i publish my next fic! so, so much love to all of you !! ♡(.◜ω◝.)♡


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